


Trellis & Vine

by GoldenThreads



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Tentacle Dick, Trans Hubert von Vestra, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads
Summary: Hubert has not exactly had to explain this to anyone before.Bernadetta could not be happier to listen. Experience. Adore.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 11
Kudos: 134





	Trellis & Vine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Froggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggie/gifts).



> Saw one too many tweets about Hubert's eldritch bits. Entered a fugue state. Bon appetite.
> 
> Frog's art [here](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog/status/1264027873737834497) was the final straw & glorious inspiration. Just. Gorgeous. 
> 
> [Hubert's junk contains multitudes. Clit, cock, folds, tentacles -- please be warned for the full buffet.]

“Bernadetta.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I, I only thought—”

_“Bernadetta.”_

She ducks her head and inspects the scuff mark on Hubert’s left boot with keen interest. Or, no, his right boot. It is from _her_ left, but—

Hubert clears his throat, his breathing so odd that he’s either pinching his nose in despair or about to lose a lung, and since Bernadetta doesn’t especially know what to do with either, she makes a point of not looking up.

“I am not opposed to your…intimations. However, I would be remiss not to. Ah. Alert you to certain structural abnormalities.”

“Structural abnormalities,” she repeats. Bernadetta only invited him to an orchestra performance for the evening, not a civic engineering lecture. It was only maybe, _maybe,_ going to be a date. If he wanted.

He coughs again, which is really very weird for him. “I fear I lack the full complement of a proper husband.”

Bernadetta says, “Uh.” 

What else is there to say, really. That’s going a bit fast.

When the silence festers, Bernadetta finally drags her gaze upwards to Hubert’s hands, white-knuckled and clenched at his sides, and then the brutal apathy of his pinched porcelain face. This means something to him.

“A proper husband wouldn’t want me,” Bernadetta tries, looking at Hubert the way a lockpick looks at a safe. “But if you want any of me, um, I think I want all of you? Unless that’s creepy.” 

His expression slips a bit, and the bags beneath his eyes are such a pretty darkness that she wants to rest her thumbs in those caverns. 

“I don’t mind creepy,” he answers, low and desperate, and she still can’t figure out why.

“And I don’t mind weird.” Bernadetta gives a little shrug, all in one shoulder. “Gives me more interesting lines to paint.”

“Are you threatening to paint me?”

She was not quite expecting a game of cat and mouse tonight, nor ever, really. And it’s not _really_ cat and mouse when the cat never even bats a paw your way, just flicks his tail around all smug and menacing then curls around you once you get cold. Bernadetta bites her lower lip in thought and feels him track the movement, his attention ever drawn in toward her, less a moth to a flame than a wretched minnow caught by the glow of an angler fish.

“That depends on if you plan to leave me curious,” she says.

It’s like taking a watercolor brush to his cheeks, the way red spills soft and sputtering across Hubert’s newly aghast face.

“That to which I refer is not for the eyes of—it is _inappropriate.”_

“Okay.” 

Inappropriate is also what he calls kissing her forehead in the market where assassins could eliminate them or old people could laugh at him, so Bernadetta knows two things all at once. First, it’s definitely intimate. Second, she’s going to love it.

Hubert doesn’t move.

Bernadetta does, but only to lock the door and walk right back. She grins. Maybe being the cat sometimes is fun, too.

The unease of Hubert’s face has shifted to bashful, to a rare earnestness that sets her heart stuttering as he says, “Don’t…panic.”

And begins to unbutton his trousers.

Oh. Bernadetta should _definitely_ be shrieking and bolting about now, but it’s Hubert, and she’s _dreamed_ of this, though he definitely never says anything as mood-breaking as Don’t Panic in her numerous fantasies, but anyway, don’t the books always say in for a penny, in for a— 

_“Tentacle!”_

Hubert stiffens at once, though the sly little tendril peeking out from beneath his fat clit has no such fear. It bears the same ink stains as so much of his skin, mottled with a darker bruise of purple on the undertones, and yes, actually, Bernadetta would _love_ to be sketching out those coiling, writhing lines as it thickens and arches to greet her. 

Her hand is out before she can even think, palm-up as though offering it for a skittish pup’s inspection, though nothing about the way Hubert’s cock slithers into her hand can be called _skittish._ It slides between two of her fingers and pools in her cupped hand with a sudden weight, all heavy muscle desperate for her warmth even as it burns so slick and smoldering. She draws a gentle fingertip along its length, a pebbled ridge of desperation rising wherever she touches, as if it cannot decide between raising its hackles and writhing in needy agony.

“Is it your, um..?” She ought to be able to say the word cock with it there in her hand, stiffening undeniably with every gentle pass of her fingers.

Hubert gives her a funny, breathless chuckle, shivering as she strokes her thumb more firmly into the slippery muscle. “It’s mine.”

“Well I know _that,”_ Bernadetta laughs. There’s no mistaking him.

She’s not sure how she’ll ever draw a plant ever again, though. It’ll be all delicate tendrils rising from loamy soil, the dark folds of his dripping cunt—would he suffer an eager finger there, without his clever cock forcing out any intruder?—and thick, sodden vines climbing the trellis of her hands, lonely in their tight caverns and seeking now the sun. As if she were the sun, even, in the way he looks at her in such intense yearning to burn.

Bernadetta dips her head to kiss the tip of him, just as she would a new bean sprout in her garden, though this little glory presses against the seam of her lips and smears honeyed slick from corner to corner.

_“Shit.”_

Hubert’s hands dig bruises into her aching shoulders, a sob of sudden pressure that she feels with her entire body, and Bernadetta jolts back in surprise. What is she _doing?_ She only meant to, um, say hello, reassure him of how utterly lovely he is, not—

Her hand does not move when she tries to pull it away.

Wide-eyed and, frankly, wetter than she’s ever been in her _life,_ Bernadetta stares in horrified adoration at the new cuff of writhing tentacles around her wrist. Three more desperate tendrils pooling from the depths of him and laving their sweet juices against her skin. They swell into her touch like the first, easing away from her arm when she offers her other hand for their tender touch. One stays locked there rolling against the soft skin of her inner wrist, kneading into the mess of veins and tendons there with as much furious devotion as she once massaged into the wiry scarring of Hubert’s palms.

To her utter delight, Bernadetta realizes each has a slightly different shade. One a ruddy lavender like wine grapes splitting in the sun, another pale as lilac blossoms along its ridge but patterned with blackest pitch the farther down its length she inspects. They preen for her, pressing through her fingers for attention and twisting together into a thick girth of molten heat in her palm. She lures them away to one side to catch a glimpse at the sodden mess of Hubert’s hole stretched raw around four tender terrors, and the swell of his clit aching for the warmth of her mouth.

To her utter _despair,_ she knows there’s simply no getting at it through the needy fronds of him, pulsing their pleasure with every gentle squeeze of her hands, but next time for sure she’ll manage a distraction. Would they bathe pliant and calm in her throat, freeing her fingers? Or the reverse, if she binds them in her hands and gulps for her prize instead—

The next time one wriggles between her fingers, she gives it the slightest pressure, pinching it there in place as she drags a forceful thumb all the way from tip to base, and Hubert _howls,_ pulsing slick all over her palms, down his own thighs. She bows her head to taste.

His heartbeat pulses in each petal, now gone punch-drunk and lazy as they pool in her cupped hands. Bernadetta separates them out one by one, scritching fondly against each swollen tip before she kisses it farewell and carefully leads it back to the mysterious, dreadfully exciting folds of his hiding place. Only the final one does not seem to fit, unwilling to curl away from her view, so she gives it double the kisses until it finally quiets and slots itself against the still-dripping core of him, a wary little guardian. 

Bernadetta brushes an apology against his handsome clit. Next time for sure.

Or, no, she’s _filthy_ is the thing, nectar dripping down her wrists. At first she thought it was just the sort of slick they lived in, thick and hazy, but there wouldn’t be nearly so much if Hubert didn’t create it himself, trailing it along in pleasure and claiming. Next time they should try it in the bathtub, maybe? Some bubbles to crown him while her hands slip under and test just how far into the nest her searching fingers will be allowed. There are simply so many possibilities, however could he think she would be bored?

And. She didn’t even consider what they’d feel like inside, riding four rebellious mounts in tandem—or are there even _more_ languishing in the depths of him?

Her tongue darts out along her lips to chase the taste of him once more, and Hubert hauls her up into the most brutal, darling kiss of her life.

“Hu—” She squeaks between the furious onslaught. “Bert!” 

Supping on the air within her lungs is very rude!

Finally he pulls away, but the look in his eyes is so frightening, so particularly unhinged, that she can’t tell if he’s about to throw her giggling into the bed or say something ridiculous like, _marry me,_ or, _you’re perfect,_ or, _do you want one of your own?_ Best she tidy up all his frayed edges before she, um, says yes. 

“I’m drenched in you,” Bernadetta says instead, which isn’t exactly what she was going for, but sure sends whatever is happening in Hubert’s head grinding to a halt. “Bath?”

“I…believe I could manage that for you.” 

He sounds so smitten that it’s all she can do to bend down and draw up his trousers, belting them back at his hips like she’s scared he’ll go off and trip in them. “Okay,” she says.

“Alright.”

They stare at each other, waiting for the other to squirm and break, but. Well. Now Bernadetta’s never going to stop thinking about where he might be squirming instead. Inside.

“And then I’m going to go paint,” Bernadetta declares, and she knows very well it’ll be a tough choice of subject. The dark and weighty lines of arousal dancing through her mind or the banner of scarlet now draped across Hubert’s cheeks. 

She knows they’ll keep the canvas either way.


End file.
